


our endless numbered days

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [12]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 05:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12052065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: An evil anon on Tumblr asked me to write about Chris and Phil's "last cuddle." It turned into this.I should be sued for this, I'm aware.





	our endless numbered days

It is very early. By most definitions, it’s still dark outside, though the sky is just barely, barely starting to bruise purple through the window with the coming sunrise.

Nobody’s looking at the damn sunrise, though.

In their little house on the water, Phil and Chris are wrapped up in one another, arms holding one another close, legs intertwined, fingers in one another’s hair. Jim and Len are asleep in the guest room, because even though the decision to die at home was agreed on by all parties, Len said he’d be goddamned if it happened without a doctor nearby who could oversee pain control - and at his age, 'Fleet Medical will basically let him do whatever he wants.

Chris is afraid. His husband’s breathing is getting tighter. He can hear it. It’s an awful sound, the sound of Phil struggling for breath; but it comforts Chris too, because it assures him that Phil is still alive, here, with him. He hates himself for that, because  _god_ , that is just  _so fucking selfish_ , isn’t it?

“I’m really tired, sweetheart.”

Phil’s words are so loving, so gentle, but the impact is sharper than any knife; they send Chris’ heart into a panicked thudding and send tears rushing to his eyes.

“If you want to go to sleep,” he forces his tongue to say, “it’s okay.” Two fat tears drip out of his eyes.

“Shh. No tears, now. It’s okay.” A weak thumb comes up and brushes his cheek. It no longer has the strength to take the tear with it.

“Are you scared?” Chris can’t stop himself from asking.

Phil’s ancient lips barely twitch. “Not if you’re holding me, I’m not.”

Chris’ arms, weak though his muscles now are with more than a century of wear and tear on them, still try to strengthen around Phil’s frail, thin frame.

“You know the only regret I have?”

Chris blinks, wondering if he can stand to hear it, but his husband continues, smiling gently.

“I’m nowhere  _close_  to finished falling in love with you.”

Chris presses their foreheads together, and though he’s never believed in any kind of higher power, he prays, for the first time in his life, to any deity in earshot from any of the thousands of cultures he’s visited, for an afterlife where he and Phil can find one another again. He prays for guidance, because this man has been the other half of his soul since he met him nearly ninety years ago, and he doesn’t know how to exist without his husband at his side.

“Thank Jim and Len for me, okay?” Phil implores. Chris is trying to stay strong and steady, but he’s trembling. “Tell them I love them both, and that I’m proud of them. They’re so good. Such good boys. Tell them for me.”

“I will.”

The end is really, really close now. Phil’s breathing is getting shakier, more erratic, with every exhale against Chris’ chest. It sounds painful and it shatters what’s still intact of Chris’ heart.

“You know...we left a lot of love for one another out there...alongside stars that will only die...when the universe does,” Phil manages to pant out.

Chris kisses his husband’s hairline. Trust Phil to start composing spontaneous sonnets in the last few minutes of his life. Chris makes eye contact with him; it’s a little blurry, because they’re both more than a hundred years old and farsighted as shit, but neither of them seem to care. “We’re permanent as the stars, you and me.”

A nod. A smile. A hand on his cheek, warm but paper-thin. A sigh - sad, sweet, loving. “I’ve gotta go to sleep now, my love.”

Tears fall from Chris’ eyes, falling thick and heavy, and he can’t stop them. “Okay.”

“Thank you for letting me love you.”

“Thank you. For being  _you.”_

“I love you. God, I love you, Chris, so much.  _So_  much.”

“I love you, Phil. With everything I am. Always will.”

Phil leans in, pressing his forehead back against his husband’s, and breathes deeply of Chris’ scent. He exhales Chris’ name, and then goes still and quiet in in his arms.

The sunrise outside abruptly loses all its color.

~

Chris no longer wants anything.

He doesn’t want his kidney medication. He doesn’t want dinner. He doesn’t want to talk, not even to Jim or Len. He definitely doesn’t want that fucking UFP flag the honor guard presented him with at the funeral, honoring Admiral Boyce’s _lifetime of dedication to Starfleet_ \- despite having retired from it thirty-five years ago.

(Phil would’ve _hated_ that. It was always  _Doctor_  Boyce, not  _Admiral_  Boyce, thank you, and he told the brass that every chance he got. Chris started laughing about it at the funeral, when he fancied he could actually hear Phil’s ranting and raving about being a doctor first; his laughter rapidly became hysterical and Jim and Len had to help him out of the service.)

He sure as shit doesn’t want sleep, where his dreams are chock-full of Phil leaving him for someone else. Chris knows enough about the psychology of grief to know that that’s just his mind’s way of processing what’s happened, but that knowledge certainly doesn’t stop the panic and tears and awful,  _awful_  feelings upon waking up.

No, Chris no longer wants anything of this universe.

What he wants is to wake up to the sound of Phil pottering around in the kitchen, burning the bacon and whistling, to hear him chastise Chris about his sugar intake and tell him to do his exercises, to feel his fingers scratching lightly on his scalp like they always did, to be surrounded by that warm, comforting, sensual spicy smell, to hear him absently muttering to himself in French or cursing a blue streak after banging his knee on the coffee table, to be surrounded by Phil’s arms again.

~

Fortune smiles on him in January, on his hundred and sixth birthday, and his first without Phil since he turned eighteen.

Chris stays in bed all day. He’s been a lot more tired lately; the cough’s been getting worse, and the joint pain far more intense. Jim sits next to him on the bed - not on Phil’s side; never on Phil’s side - and Len scans him. His expression tells Chris everything he needs to know.

“How long?” he rasps.

Len sets his equipment down and folds his arms neutrally over his middle; it’s an exact parody of Phil’s most common doctor’s stance, and Chris feels warm. “If we treat it, a year, give or take.”

Chris coughs. Jim helps him sit, gets him water. “And if we don’t?”

Len visibly swallows, and Jim’s grip on his shoulder gets a little tighter. “Weeks. A month, maybe.”

Chris turns his head. Phil’s spot on the bed is empty and cold. The sheets have been changed and long since lost what scent of his they still held. But so much of him is untouched - the coffee cup by the bed, his PADD, the little mini-holo of them at their wedding, Chris leaning in and kissing a swipe of cake icing off Phil’s nose that he’d dotted on just moments before. Their civilian suits are still visibly damp from the downpour that was an unexpected guest at the ceremony, and Phil's laughing and grinning delightedly, leaning into Chris' embrace.

“No treatment,” Chris declares, eyes fixed on that picture.

Jim’s grip on Chris’ shoulder trembles noticeably. “Chris, what - ”

Chris turns to Jim, that dear wonderful problem child who’s made Chris’ life infinitely richer, and pats his knee affectionately. “It’s okay, Jim,” he reassures. “It’s okay.”

“But - ”

“I just wanna go see Phil.”

Jim’s lips are working as if he’s trying to formulate a response, but nothing comes out, and he just leans his head into Chris’ shoulder. Chris can feel him suppressing tears.

Len just nods solemnly, understanding better than most the feeling of abject despair that comes when your soul’s been fractured in two by death.

“We can suppress the cough so you can sleep,” he says quietly. “And I’m not stingy on pain control, as you know.”

“I appreciate that.”

And so, that's that.

~

One day, Chris swears he sees him.

Len’s had him on an absolute fuckton of duraphine to keep the pain to a dull roar, and as a result, Chris has been sleeping the last several days away. His brief periods of wakefulness are marred by deep annoyance that he woke up in the first place, that that hadn't been _it_. 

Jim’s at his side, holding his hand. Chris can’t remember exactly how long he’s been there, but knows it’s measurable in weeks.

Chris turns his head to Phil’s side of the bed, and there, in the excruciatingly bright sunshine streaming through their bedroom window...there he is, sitting on his side of the bed.

The Phil he sees is twentysomething, hair still light brown and floppy. He's in medical scrubs, looking an awful lot like he did when Chris first met him all those decades ago. He’s also smiling, that soft, gentle smile that spent years quickening Chris’ heart and weakening his knees.

It gives Chris a modicum of hope.

“You ready to go on a trip?” Phil asks him lovingly.

“Phil,” Chris breathes.

Jim starts next to him, and Chris vaguely hears him calling for Len.

The apparition is fading now, but Phil just smiles even bigger as his image starts to vanish. “Soon, sweetheart.”

~

It’s a weird experience, dying.

It’s different, Chris thinks, dying suddenly and unexpectedly versus dying when you know it’s coming. Chris has come close, quite a few times - at Daystrom, on the Narada, _after_ the Narada, on Damma II - and every time, he was afraid.

He’s not afraid this time. He thinks maybe he should be, but he's not.

He likens this to wandering the desert and then happening upon a pool of crisp, clean water. It feels like _relief_. It feels like his body is finally, finally acceding to the demands of his spirit.

He’s already one foot over, but he has just enough presence of mind in this plane to squeeze Jim’s hand next to him. “I love you, son,” he says softly. “And I’m so proud of you.”

Phil’s there again, and _huh,_ it looks like Maine, like the Boyce family home decked out for Christmas; he hears the hush of snowfall and smells the trees and sees Phil, he’s there, he’s _really there_ , with open arms, ready to embrace him.

Everything is calm and nothing hurts and he says “I love you” again and he’s not sure who he’s talking to or which side they’re on and does it matter? because Jim's gripping his hand in one world and Phil's pulling him close in the other and he loves and he loves and he _loves..._

Chris lets go and floats, and Phil’s smell and arms surround him, and everything - _everything_ \- is okay.


End file.
